


Battle Wounds

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Series: And They Were Roommates [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Lovers, Healing, Human/Vampire Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Magic, Mild Language, Sexual Tension, SnowBaz, Vampires, Watford (Simon Snow), and simon not understanding but subconsciously loving baz, just baz being obsessed with simon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: Simon returns from one of the Mage's missions with some pretty serious injuries. Good thing Baz is so good at magic.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: And They Were Roommates [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1770358
Comments: 9
Kudos: 205





	Battle Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Puked this up this evening because I read Carry On and Wayward Son this week, and couldn't not write a SnowBaz fic. More to come. 
> 
> I'll edit this at some point this week - I tend to do very quick edits, or just edit as I write, which isn't a perfect solution.

**BAZ**  


I’ve barely made it halfway up the creaking stairs of Mummers House when a sharp, metallic scent begins to tickle at the inside of my nose: blood, and a lot of it. I’ve just come back from the Wavering Wood, where I indulged on a few less-than-compliant rabbits, so the scent isn’t completely unbearable; for a vampire, I think I have a fairly impressive level of self-control. This, however, has the unmistakably heady aroma of _human_ blood – _Simon Snow’s,_ to be exact.  


Against my will, my fangs pop, sliding into place in anticipation of another meal. I stop where I’m at and shake my head back and forth wildly, as if it will somehow send these stupid teeth back up into my gums. No such luck; they’re not going anywhere until I move myself out of range of the offending smell. I take a few more steps until I can see the door to Snow’s and my room. The brass doorknob is wet with a sticky, black liquid, and it seems that the stuff has been smeared across the lower half of the heavy oak door as well. The stairwell is poorly lit, but I can tell that this _isn’t_ blood. Whether I should be thankful of that fact, I don’t yet know.

_Fucking Snow._ Can’t go a week without getting into trouble of some sort, it seems. Granted, the Mage (who is _supposed_ to be Simon’s guardian) makes no effort to keep him out of it. Anytime he has a task he’d rather not take on, he sends Snow and his counterpart, the indomitable Penelope Bunce, to do his dirty work for him. A regular parent might send their kid down to the shops for some milk or a box of bikkies; the Mage’s errands usually involve either a) a deadly creature that nearly tears Snow to shreds, b) some forbidden relic or artifact buried in a difficult-to-access location, or c) a mix of the two. Based on the sludge dripping down our door, Simon’s gone off and splattered himself with the innards of some disgusting creature. 

From the pocket of my school blazer, I pull out a handkerchief, which I use to keep my hand clean as I twist the slimy doorknob. Thankfully, I’ve got about a dozen others tucked away in one of my drawers. With the toe of my shoe, I push the door open. 

The main part of the room is empty, but for the usual contents: two beds with lumpy feather mattresses, other miscellaneous furniture items, and a record player that I’ve magicked so that it will play the music from my phone (the mage version of Bluetooth). On the floor beside Snow’s bed sits a blood-stained pile of clothes. The bathroom door is shut, and the light from within peaks out through the cracks at the edges of the doorframe. I tiptoe over and press my ear to the cool wood, hoping to hear signs of life. 

“Fucking _fuck_ , that hurts,” I hear Simon hiss under his breath, followed by the splash of water, and a sharp yelp. Maybe he’s broken his nose; that would serve him right. My own nose will be crooked the rest of my life because of Snow, and no amount of magic will change that. 

“Snow, it’s a bloody mess out here, quite literally,” I call out, my voice heavy with annoyance. “And what the hell is this black goop all over the door?” 

“Shove off, Baz,” Simon growls back, “I’ll clean it up later. I’m a bit busy at the moment.” Something is off in his voice – more than usual, that is – and it’s making me nervous for reasons I can’t put my finger on. I try opening this door, but Simon’s locked it for some reason. _Fuck._

“Snow, I’m coming in,” I tell him as I grasp the leather handle of my wand. “If you’re in the way, move.” 

“Baz, don’t,” Simon grunts through clenched teeth. “It’s…I’m bleeding.” 

“You don’t say,” I mutter sarcastically. “Who’d have guessed?” He’s been making an effort to avoid directly acknowledging my vampirism, but at this point, he might as well say that he’s worried I’ll drain him dry if I catch sight of a paper-cut. 

If I really wanted to, I could just crush the brass doorknob in my hand, but the blokes who look after maintenance issues here at Watford might not appreciate that so much. Pointing at the doorknob, I enunciate calmly and clearly: “ _ **Open sesame!**_ ” The simple spell draws upon about a match’s worth of my fire-like magickal energy. The lock clicks open, and a moment later I’m standing face-to-face with Snow, who is both shirtless and bleeding, neither of which are good things when he and I are alone in a room together. 

“Crowley, what’ve you done to yourself?” I ask, wincing as I get a good look at three deep, ugly gashes running parallel across his side. The waistband of his trousers is saturated with blood. Not even a magickal dry cleaner will be able to get those stains out, I think to myself. 

“Were-tiger,” Snow chokes out, gripping the bathroom counter like a vice as another wave of pain crashes over him. “Caught me with his claws just as I slashed his head off.” As he speaks, blood continues to seep steadily from his wounds. He eyes me warily; my fangs are concealed beneath my lips, but just barely. 

“Well, don’t just stand there, you numpty,” I snap, drawing my wand from my trouser pocket. “I need to patch this up – preferably before you bleed to death.” Simon’s face twists into a scowl as he hoists himself up onto the vanity, but I can tell from the tremor in his hands that he’s afraid. The blood loss has affected his colouring, I note. His skin, which is usually tanned and freckled, has taken on a greyish pallor, not unlike my own. 

“If you put some sort of curse on me, Pitch,” Simon growls, “I swear, I’ll—” 

“You’ll what?” I let out a sudden snark and press the tip of my wand to the hollow of his throat. “You’ll die, that’s what you’ll do. You can barely execute a simple spell, so it looks as though I’m your only hope if you want to keep your guts inside your body. Either you’ll sit still and let me close these wounds, or I’ll watch you bleed to death. Make your choice, Snow.” I bare my teeth – fangs and all – for dramatic effect. 

As Simon regards me defiantly with his steely blue eyes, I realize that I’m much closer to him than I initially thought; when he swallows, I feel his Adam’s apple move against my knuckles. His eyes flicker down to my mouth for a fraction of a second, so briefly that if I had blinked, I’d have missed it. 

“Your lip,” he murmurs, forgetting himself for a moment. As I stare at him, confused, he reaches out and gently wipes his thumb across my bottom lip. When he draws back, he shows me a drop of my own blood, bright red on the pad of his finger. “You’ve nicked it with your fang.” _Huh. I suppose I must’ve._

Without thinking, I take hold of his wrist to steady his hand, and I lick the blood from his finger, savouring the tang of iron and the salt from Snow’s skin. My breath catches in my throat when I realize what I’ve done, and I release his wrist immediately. 

“I’m…I’m sorry,” I stammer, backing up a step to give Snow some space. If the ground could open and swallow me whole right now, I’d go willingly. But he says nothing; instead, Simon leans his back against the mirror behind him, lifts his left arm above his head, and rotates his upper body slowly – hissing out a pained breath as he turns – so that I have a good view of the slash marks in his side. It’s his silent way of saying, _”I trust you.”_

Taking his movement as permission, I begin casting spell after spell on him: _**Get well soon; Get well soon; Get well soon.**_ Simon closes his eyes, allowing me to focus completely on my work. I put every bit of effort I can into speaking with perfect clarity, perfect intonation, and my efforts are rewarded; the smooth skin below Simon’s ribs begins to knit itself back together neatly, beginning with the deepest tissue and working its way to the surface. After a few minutes, I find myself searching for any remaining mark or blemish, but find none. I reach out and touch his side, and find that the skin is once again hot and flushed beneath my fingertips. 

“That should do it,” I say, shifting my gaze up to Simon’s face. I expect him to be watching me carefully, supervising my work, or ensuring that my tongue and hands stay where they are supposed to be. Instead, I find that my adorably thick roommate has fallen asleep against the wall, using his arm as a pillow. His mouth is wide open, but he hasn’t yet started to snore. 

“Snow,” I whisper, reaching up to give his shoulder a gentle shake. It feels almost cruel to wake him; he must be absolutely knackered after whatever he’s been through today. Snow snoozes on, showing no sign that he’s heard me. I try again, jostling him a bit harder this time. Again, no response. 

I crane my head out the bathroom door and see that there’s a clear path from the bathroom to his bed. So long as I avoid slipping on the torn-up shirt he’s left lying on the floor, I shouldn’t have any problem carrying him the 10 or so steps it would take to get him into his bed. After one more (half-hearted) attempt to rouse him from his slumber, I slip one arm behind his back, and the other in the crook of his legs, and hoist him up into my arms. His head rests against my shoulder, and I have to stifle a giggle when a few of his curly locks tickle at my throat. 

Thankfully, Snow never remembers to make his bed, so the sheets and quilt aren’t in the way when I lay him down on his lumpy mattress. I leave his trousers on, even though they’re wet with blood, and pull the sheets up over his shoulders. Although he seemed to have let the finger-licking slide, I’m not so sure he wouldn’t strangle me in my sleep if he woke up in just his pants. A slight fever tends to come over the recipient of healing magic in the 8 or so hours following the repair of a serious injury, so I tuck his quilt back to keep him from overheating in the night. If my aunt Fiona were to see me right now, she’d be mortified; she’d probably suggest I snap my wand and take up a Normal career as a bedside nurse. 

On an impulse, I lean down and murmur Snow’s name ( _Simon_ ) into his ear one last time (to be sure he’s really asleep) before pressing a kiss to his forehead. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. He’s got freckles everywhere, and I’ve been dying to kiss each and every one of them for years. This might be my only chance, because once he wakes up and remembers that I licked my own blood off his finger (Merlin, why the _fuck_ did I do that?!), he’ll probably light me on fire and smile as I go up in a poof of smoke, like a human-sized piece of flash paper. 

I leave the task of cleaning up the bathroom and the door of our room for the morning, because I’m exhausted after all the healing magic I had to do to keep Simon from exsanguinating. I’m not even sure I could even turn off the lamp with my magic at this point. As I shuck my own clothes off, I notice with intense displeasure that a fair amount of Simon’s blood has gotten onto the sleeve of my shirt. _Shit._ This was one of my favourites, and now Snow’s gone and ruined it. I might be in love with him, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be cross with him for bleeding all over me like those squirming rabbits I drained earlier. Ugh, what a mess. 

From my bed, I watch the rise and fall of Simon’s chest for a few minutes, just to be sure that he’s still breathing. I trust in my own magickal abilities, but the conscious fear of losing him is too great to ignore. He rustles around a fair bit, but otherwise displays no signs of discomfort. He even seems to have earned a nightmare-free sleep, the lucky bastard; I doubt I’ll be so fortunate. Once I’m satisfied that he’s safe, I close my eyes and start my nightly routine of running through Latin and Greek verb conjugations. (I’ve heard that some people count sheep.) 

Just as I’m beginning to drift off, I hear a snuffling sound from the direction of Snow’s bed. He takes a few breaths, rustles around in his blankets, and mumbles a single word before he goes quiet for the night. 

“Baz…” 

* * * * * 

Penelope Bunce, with a heaping plate of food in hand, climbs the stairs of the Mummers House turret. She’s distracted by trying to keep everything on the plate, and mumbles under her breath – something about Simon sleeping in again, or being late for class. She grabs the doorknob, and snatches her hand back when she feels the squelch of some gooey substance between her fingers. 

“What the…” She lifts her hand to her face and sees a black sludge coating her fingertips. Concerned by the presence of this unknown substance on her skin, she turns the knob again and pushes into Simon and Baz’s room, and Penny’s jaw drops at the sight she happens upon. 

There are red shoeprints leading from the bathroom to the space between the boys’ beds across the room, a pile of blood-soaked rags that she thinks might have once been clothing, and when she steps forward to peer into the bathroom, she sees splashes of blood on the floor, the wall, and in the sink. It looks like there’s been a massacre. Penny lets out a cry of horror as she takes in the scene, waking both of the room’s occupants. Baz’s jet black hair is sticking up every which way, and Simon has a line of drool across his face. Both are half-asleep and very confused. 

“Bunce, what the _hell_ are you doing here?” Baz grouches, running a hand through his hair to remove it from his eyes. 

“Pen, it’s okay,” Simon yawns, sitting up slowly in his bed. “I just had a *yawn* little accident last night, and Baz helped fix me up.” Penny lifts her wand and points at the hanging light fixture in the centre of the room, which turns on without her even having to speak. She gets a proper look at Simon, whose arms and chest are crusty with dried blood. Baz may have patched up his wounds, but in the moment, he was too distracted to remember to say a quick _**“Clean as a whistle”**_. Penny’s eyes go wide, and with a screeching howl, she wakes every single one of the residents of Mummers House (and on a Saturday morning, too). 

_“What the **fuck**?”_

**Author's Note:**

> What other SnowBaz moments are you *dying* to read?? Let me know so I can add them to this series of one-shots!


End file.
